Sunny
by blueowls
Summary: Brittany x Santana. //Coach Sylvester is relentless in her pursuit of excellence.//


**Author Note: **None.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

**Sunny**

Coach Sylvester is relentless in her pursuit of excellence. The end of the school year or the merciful finale of Quinn's baby drama isn't much of a big deal, because Cheerios practice is still at four o'clock every day. By the middle of July, they've all reached the point where nerves are frayed, moves are dangerously lacking in precision, and suspiciously unplanned family vacations save two lucky girls from further practice sessions.

Sylvester can threaten them and wave the bullhorn around and kick the water cooler over all she wants, but there's no denying they need a vacation. So on a blissfully uneventful Thursday afternoon, Santana finds herself lounging on a deckchair in Brittany's backyard in the skimpiest black bikini she owns, eyes closed against the sunlight with her iPod on shuffle in one hand and a Cosmo magazine she's long since lost interest in but is saving to chuck at anyone who disturbs her in the other.

At one-fifteen in the afternoon, it's sunny and like a million degrees and still threatening to climb higher. It's humid too, but whatever. They're pretty much ideal tanning conditions, especially considering that Brittany has the only pool out of the three of them to cool off in periodically. Which, Santana thinks as a frown mars her previously peaceful expression, would be really cool right about now, considering a bead of sweat just rolled down her temple.

Santana tosses the magazine aside, narrowly missing Quinn's bare feet—who looks up at her from her novel with an annoyed expression—and runs the tip of her finger disgustedly over her skin, capturing the moisture. She holds her hand out and flicks her fingers in Quinn's general direction, and the other girl sighs, drawing her feet up and curl into a corner of the flimsy plastic chair, reaching behind herself skillfully to grab her iced tea off the table and continue reading.

For a while, there's a pretty tranquil silence, broken only by the occasional dry whir of bug wings and the clinking of Quinn's ice cubes. Well, there are little kids making a racket a few yards down and some stupid bird won't stop twittering, but the heat seems to be exhausting them as much as everyone else, and whatever noise they make is subdued and easily drowned out by her music.

Suddenly, something blocks all of her sunlight, and Santana suppresses a shiver at the absence of warmth as she opens her eyes, blinking and holding a hand up to shade her vision. What she sees is miles and miles of leg, a toned stomach, fingers curled low over hipbones in a pouting gesture, and a red bikini with giant white polka dots, faintly reminiscent of Minnie Mouse.

It must just be the colors, because there's nothing Disney about that body, or what she's thinking of doing to it later.

Santana tilts her chin up a shade, eyes narrowing against the corona of sun backlighting Brittany's head.

"Hey, sexy," she purrs, voice low. Quinn makes an unattractively-loud gagging noise from her seat as Brittany glares back down at her stoically, totally undeterred. Flattery doesn't seem to work as well on her since Quinn told Santana to move it or lose it, Lopez, because if you don't, Mike will and they made everything legit.

"Don't you need sunscreen?"

Santana reaches down for a bottle resting next to the deckchair, dropping the magazine and stretching painfully until her fingertips brush against the cap and she snatches it off the grass. She then holds up the bottle of baby oil and jiggles it, causing the oil in the clear bottle to slosh back and forth thickly.

"Sylvester still refuses to let me use the tanning salon. Thinks I'll perv out on all the other Cheerios or something," Santana explains. She pauses, and then holds the bottle out to Brittany, giving it another shake. "You're still banned too, by the way."

Brittany shifts, resting her weight on one leg, and crosses her arms over her chest as she frowns. For some reason, Santana finds it incredibly attractive. If she had to wager a guess, it would be because the gesture is so out of character.

Also, major cleavage.

"I don't think that's safe."

"Okay," Santana admits with a shrug. "Then what do you suggest?"

Brittany moves away suddenly, and Santana curses loudly as the sun hits her right in the face. She shuts her eyes and clasps a hand over them, pain lancing through her head.

"What the hell, Brittany? You could've have warned me!"

"Tanning oil, at least," Brittany says smugly, having grabbed a tube of what looks like sunblock off the table, though half-blind, it could be anything. She pops the cap off the sunblock with her thumb, grinning. "Since you insist on giving yourself skin cancer. But you know what's even better?"

"Let me get back to you on that, B," Santana says absentmindedly, stretching her leg out to nudge Brittany's thigh with a toe. Brittany swats her foot, but she's totally blocking her sun again. "I have to compile a list of everything I can think of that's better than _sunscreen_."

In a smooth, practiced motion that never fails to leave Santana tingling and breathless, Brittany leans toward her and straddles her lap, one hand curling over her shoulder as she settles herself comfortably on Santana and tugs suggestively on the straps of her top.

"I think you misunderstood me," Brittany smirks as Santana tries to sit up a little more and grins, hands coming to rest possessively on the other girl's waist.

"Did I, now?"

Brittany nods silently, a single finger pressing against Santana's chest. She pushes until the other girl's sitting all the way back in the chair, and then squeezes a small amount of sunblock out onto the palm of her free hand. She brings her hands together, rubs them to spread the sunblock evenly, and then lets her fingers trail slowly from Santana's shoulders down to her stomach before she actually starts to rub the sunblock on.

Quinn heaves a weary sigh as she looks up and shuts her book quietly. Try as she might, she cannot possibly continue reading while ignoring the quiet giggling and sensual noises coming from the deckchair several feet away where her friends are acting out every teenage boy's wet dreams. Uncurling her legs, she stretches quickly before she picks up her book and stands, heading inside.

She has to blink hard before her eyes can start to get used to the darkness of Brittany's house, so she stands for a minute in the living room until she's reasonably sure she won't run into the china cabinet and knock over some priceless antique Dutch plate as she makes her way to the kitchen, leaving her book teetering on the arm of the couch. She finds Brittany's mom in the kitchen, though, so Quinn slips past the doorway before she notices her, heading up the stairs.

She wanders into Brittany's room and pauses in the middle, unsure of what she's doing but knowing that she just doesn't want to be downstairs with Santana and Brittany. She'd be a pretty big hypocrite is she said she had a problem with her best friends dating each other because she's not exactly the poster child for the Christ Crusaders anymore—even if she might be a perfect example of the power of redemption—but it's still depressing, how everything's worked out perfectly for the two them. She makes her way to the window, pulling back the half-drawn curtains and feeling the warm sun hit her, and she squints as she looks down into the yard, turning away almost immediately. It's a good thing she left when she did, because it doesn't look like they're just putting on sunblock anymore.

Quinn flops down onto Brittany's bed, exhaling loudly as she presses her face to the cool, wrinkled sheets and blinks quickly. She's not crying, she tells herself calmly. She's just frustrated and tired and she can smell a hint of Santana's perfume on the sheets and that's vaguely disturbing and there's this jealous feeling overwhelming her, and it's upsetting because Quinn Fabray does _not_ get jealous. Other people get jealous of her, but never the other way around.

She turns over on her side and, of course, her gaze falls on the nightstand. Next to an alarm clock and Brittany's white cell phone is a small framed picture of her and Santana. Actually, it's a strip of cheap photo booth pictures in black and white in a too-big frame. The first picture's fairly normal, with both girls smiling widely. The second one has Brittany with her arms thrown around Santana, and Santana making a hideous face at the camera. About half of the third picture is taken up by Brittany's blurry abs and bra because she's flashing the camera, and Santana's got a sleazy grin on her face and both hands cupping Brittany's breasts. God, her friends are _bizarre_. And then, to top it off, Brittany's grinning wide-eyed at the camera in the last picture and Santana's kissing her sweetly on the cheek.

It's just too sickeningly cute, and Quinn feels her stomach turn as she reaches out and flips the frame on its back with a clatter, frowning.

She can understand loneliness, because it's lonely at the top. But nothing's really gotten better. Sure, she got her abs back with help from Brittany and she doesn't have a baby to take care of. She's even on the Cheerios again, although Santana's the captain and never lets her forget it. But she doesn't have a boyfriend, either, or anyone else. Just Brittany and Santana, she realizes, so she reaches out again and rights the frame with a fleeting mental apology to Brittany.

As she heaves herself up off the bed and sits cross-legged, contemplating whether to go back downstairs or not, Brittany's phone vibrates on the nightstand. Quinn bites her lip before picking up the phone and pressing a few buttons. It's a message from Kurt, asking if Brittany wants to go shopping with him and Mercedes _right now_. His emphasis, not hers. It even says _on way, bitch_, so Quinn answers it.  
_  
__Busy._

Kurt's reply is almost automatic, so Mercedes must be driving.

_Slut._

Quinn's pretty sure he's teasing—or close enough friends to get away with calling Brittany that—so she puts the phone back down on the nightstand and heads back downstairs.

Santana's laying out on a towel on the grass when she steps out of the house, and Brittany's peering over the edge of the pool, blonde hair dripping wet and flicking droplets of poolwater at Santana. Santana looks up at her as she sits on the damp ground, dangling her legs in the water as Brittany swims closer.

"Safety first," Santana says sarcastically, knowing exactly how greasy she looks.

"I can see that," Quinn replies, arching a brow. It looks like Brittany used the entire bottle of sunblock, and it'll be hell to get all of it off.

"We missed you," Brittany says bluntly as she stops and hangs onto the side of the pool, the waves she makes lapping at Quinn's legs. "You were gone for a long time."

"Sorry. I spaced out on your bed," Quinn shrugs, and Brittany nods knowingly.

"Santana does it all the time," she reassures her, and there's a groan from Santana as she covers her face with a hand and mutters "_Jesus_, Britt."

Quinn smirks, but it's not at anyone. It's just the closest thing to smiling she thinks she's capable of. She slides into the water and sidles up the Brittany, leaning close and whispering in her ear before Brittany grins deviously and nods and they both dip their hands underwater, hands coming up cupped with poolwater.

When the double handfuls of water hit Santana, there's a loud, "What the fuck, you guys!" before Brittany laughs and kicks off from the side of the pool, drenching Quinn in a huge splash as she dives underwater and leaves Quinn struggling to keep up with her and dodge an enraged Santana who now has no qualms about getting wet.

Quinn decides that it really doesn't matter if she only has Brittany and Santana. She's fine with that, because really? Everyone else sucks in comparison.


End file.
